Simon's Lullaby
by Pocru
Summary: In his soft but uneven melody, there was both the soul of hope and the heart of despair-but how long can one man keep such a fragile balance?


Who could sleep in this corpse of a town?

The war was still fresh in the air—the scent of decay still rode on every gust, and the remains of the heat generated by that bomb still tickled at the tips of one's hair. The buildings were charred a raw black, rubble dressed the curled streets, and smoke still rose from long-dead fires.

There were even still bodies on the road.

Night was beginning to fall over them: the normally gray sky had sunk into even darker shades, and within the hour it'd be nearly impossible to see anything. Seeking refuge from the cold and the dangers of the wild, he'd set up camp on the top of a mostly in-tact building: a fire, the bedrolls laid out, a few pots and pans spread about for if he decided to cook something, and an open bottle of perfume he'd pillaged from a beauty parlor to mask the ugly scents in the air.

He had told her that survivors stick together at times like these. He had a nice smile and smelled like peppermint, so she believed him: of course, neither of them had been a survivor before, so she had just as much authority on the subject as he did. Still, she liked the idea, and when they found other survivors then maybe they could all start a new life together, so they could stop wallowing in the remains of the old.

Still, while she was willing to place what little faith she had left in this world on the shoulders of this knife-nosed stranger, she had to admit she wasn't crazy about the idea of sleeping here, where the looming presence of death seemed especially prominent.

"Hey. Mister."

The Mister in question looked up from the journal in his lap and met her eyes: she was snug under the bedroll, tiny body smothered by the thick sheets clearly intended for an adult three times her size.

"Yes, Marceline?"

She sat up, curling her lips out in a displeased pout.

"I can't sleep. It's too scary here."

"What? Scary? What's so scary about this place, huh?"

His voice was softened with sympathy and kindness, for however little he understood her position.

"It's dark. I keep hearing things. It's still a little cold, and I'm scared I'll wake up alone tomorrow…"

He blinked, rubbing his chin in contemplative thought.

"Hmmmm… well, let's see… oh, I know, how about a Lullaby?"

She tilted her head, wrapping the blankets of the bedroll around her even tighter.

"A what?"

"…oh. A Lullaby. It's a song that calms you down. Helps you sleep."

"I don't see how that'd help much, Mister…"

"It helped me go to sleep when I was little and I thought the boogieman was under my bed. Let's see… what was mom's song again…?"

He pondered for a few more moments, digging through the annals of his memory looking for that one little tune his mother whispered into his ear every night of his childhood: it had sort of become the theme song to his innocence, why was it so easy to forget?

"…ah!" He grinned, "That was it! Alright, um… my voice might be a little rusty, but here it goes."

He coughed, clearing his throat a little bit, then closed his eyes.

"Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon,

I'm singing this song with you

In the morning when you're gone

I'll wait again to sing along

Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon

What makes your songs so sweet?

Lend me your melody

To give all the sweetest dreams

To my dear Marceline

Goodnight, Mr. Moon,

Goodnight, Marceline

Goodnight… goodnight…"

His voice was raspy, and he couldn't carry a tune very well. But he sang with sincerity enough to override the rest of the world with the simple melody: shooing away the heat that tickled her hair and fending off the scent of decay that rode on the breeze.

"That was nice…" She yawned, easing back into her bedroll.

"Glad to hear it. Good ol' mom knew the best lullabies."

She closed her eyes, sinking under the sheets further, allowing Simon to turn back to his journal.

"…hey. Mister?" Her tiny voice peeked out from under the sleeping bag.

"Yes?"

"Could you sing it again?"

She couldn't see it, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

"Of course."

* * *

Fear, Darkness, Isolation.

There was something about wilderness that helped surface primal fears in the hearts of men and children alike. They were in no more danger in the middle of the woods than they were in the ruins of a city or town, and yet every terror was amplified by the bare trees that malevolently hunched over them, glaring down at the pair with invisible, cruel eyes. Every sound, instead of being a prank pulled by the wind, was now the calling card of some ruthless murderer out for their blood. Every shadow was more than just an absence of light, but also a void—some bottomless chasm where any nightmare could crawl out into the tangible world.

It was night. They had no fuel for a fire, and it was raining too intensely anyway—red lightning clapped in the sky, giving them flashes of the woods, and the slowly closing circle of trees that surrounded them. They were soaked, and their prospects of escaping the downpour were grim: the rain was relentless and there was no shelter in the unwelcoming darkness of the forest. They could not rest. After a long day of walking, the reward for his tireless efforts was a brisk jog through the terrifying woods, with a tiny gray-skinned girl clinging to his shoulder.

Another flash of lightning, another explosion in the sky.

"Aaaah!" She squealed, tightening her hold around his neck, which did little favors for his breathing. "I saw something!"

"What? Where?!" He huffed, hand sliding from under her to grasp at the crown at his side. The driving rain poured into their ears, forcing them to yell at one another, even though they were literally inches away.

"I-it was in front of us, I… it might have just been a… whaah!" She buried her nose into the nape of his neck, inhaling what little of his scent that wasn't under an inch of rainwater. He sighed weakly, dodging a tree that had the nerve of being in his way—he could only see a few feet ahead with the deluge and darkness obscuring his vision… thank god he was such a fan of ninjas, he was borrowing their reflexes right now.

"Marcaline, Sweetie, don't scare me like that! Just breathe, we'll be alright!"

She sniffed, shifting against his pack, which had to share his back with her. She'd occasionally wrestle with it weakly in an effort to get a better grip on his shoulders. They were slippery.

"I'm sorry Mr. Simon but I- AAAAAHH!"

Another snap of lightning—Simon used this brief window of light to map his path for his next precious steps, leaping over a fallen log. Twigs snapped under him as he landed, and continued to stride forward into the hopeless black. There needed to be something at the end of this forest, anything: a building, a car, an outhouse, anything with a roof and four walls would do.

He ducked under low-hanging branches. Stepped around another tree. Marceline's breath pushed against his neck, working with his adrenaline, fear, and the cold to combat the fatigue that would slow him down. Had to keep moving, had to keep moving, couldn't stop.

It was a marathon, a push into empty hopes. His body wasn't accustomed to sprints, but cataclysm had a funny way of forcing the most out of the untrained. In his old life, the most running he did was short dashes between the aisles of the library, when desperately searching for the right book. If only the situation were different, his body might have the time to rebel against this sudden break from its usual limitations.

He could feel Marcaline's heartbeat against his back, sometimes. It must have helped push the blood through his veins faster.

…a snag. Time, in an unusual moment of cooperation, slowed: he looked down, but couldn't see what root had managed to snare his foot. His mind raced: if he didn't do something, he'd fall. What could he do, he had to stop… but his momentum, the breathing on his neck, the adrenaline, the fear, the cold… they pushed too hard. No, he couldn't stop, he was going to fall. Goddamn, he was going to fall.

"N-nagh!" He cried, stumbling, tilting forward as Marcaline wailed in terror, her weight combined with the pack throwing him off balance as his body desperately fought against the combined force of gravity and his own clumsiness. Too many things all at once, throwing off his coordination—mud, slippery, no traction, rain in his eyes, the darkness—couldn't see what direction he was falling. Screaming. A thunderclap, and the world, for a flash, was on its back. Staggering. Smashing. The sound of his pack exploding, little Marcaline soaring off his back, sliding into the mud. Snaps and crashes and paper dissolving into pulp, pans crackling, glass breaking. Pain everywhere. Cold mud up his nose. Body sore. Time picked back up. Nothing was moving anymore.

"M… Marcaline… are you okay…?" He murmured, still trying to figure out which direction was up.

"Ow…" She whimpered, her voice breaking into a sob. "Mr… Simon…"

"Are you hurt? Are…" His arms pushed… up. He pushed himself up, shaking his head, looking—the world was blurry. His hands were a mosaic of fuzz. His glasses—oh, god, his glasses were gone!

"My glasses!" He called, slamming his palms into the mud in a frantic search. "My glasses, I lost my glasses! Gah! I can't see!" He howled, turning this way and that, thrashing in the mud, fingers desperately groping in the darkness for anything he could reach.

"…I… I'll h-help you look!" she sniveled, pulling herself from the mud as well—if he could have seen her, he would have been heartbroken to see such an beautiful little girl stained with mud and tears, utterly drenched and shivering mercilessly.

Still, her voice soothed his panicked mind just long enough to realize the inevitable truth.

"N-no… shit shit shit… we might break them, then we'd be truly screwed… goddammit!" He roared, using every ounce of willpower his fragile mind could offer to stop himself from smashing his fists into the ground. "Not here! Anywhere but here! I don't… I don't want… why?! WHY?!"

He heaved into the ground, curling into the mud, allowing the rain to whip at his back and the dirt to color his hair a disgusting brown. What could he do? They couldn't stay out here, it was too cold, too dangerous, the rain could drown them, lighting could strike, a tree could fall, the world could end AGAIN and he couldn't save her because he lost his GLASSES? He couldn't even use the goddamn crown as a last resort, unable to see he just might freeze her on accident! His breathing became sporadic. The steady rise and fall of his back grew uneven and shallow. The world had never seemed more cruel than this… stealing everything… absolutely everything from him, then giving him this one last solace, this one final, precious gift, and now it was going to take THAT too?! Was there no end to his suffering?! Was this his fate until the end of time?! To slowly lose his cursed mind while everything he cared about vanished into the wind?! Was this the fate of Simon Petrikov, born to live an eternity of misery!

…a tiny, filthy hand fell upon his back. Accompanied by the whisper of a song, which slowly brushed against the tips of his ears.

"M…Mr. Moon… M-Mr. Moon…

I… I'm… singing this tune f-for…"

She tried, fighting her shivering and bruised body to sing for him. Her voice was small, pathetic, and struggling to keep the light tone the melody required. But she continued regardless.

He sniffed. She got some lyrics wrong. It had been a while, hadn't it?

"Singing this song with you."

"S-singing this song f-with you…"

"In the morning… when you're gone…"

"In the morning when you're g-gone"

"I'll wait again to sing along."

"I… I'll w-wait again to sing along…."

"Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon"

"Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon."

"What makes your songs… so sweet?"

"W-what makes y-your songs so sweet?"

"Lend me your melody…"

"Please lend me your melody…"

"To give all the sweetest dreams…"

"T-to give th-all the sweetest dreams"

"To my sweet Marcaline"

"To my sweet Marcali… Simon…"

"Goodnight…"

"Goodnight…"

"…that's right…"

He slowly raised himself from the mud, and blindly reached forward—he found nothing. But Marcaline willingly slipped into his arms and fell into his chest, pressing her cheek against the solemn beating of his heart.

"Goodnight… Mr. Simon…"

"Goodnight Marcaline…"

The rain fell. The thunder boomed. The lightning cackled. But right now, they were okay.

They were okay.

* * *

"And a-one, and a-two, and a one, two, three, hit it!"

Obediently, Simon pushed down on the "Play" button: The radio spat, churned, rumbled, but eventually hot music began to flow out of the machine. Coincidentally, the same could be said of Marceline, who had made a makeshift microphone out of Duct Tape and a broken broom handle for the sole purpose of accessorizing as she sang along.

"Load up on guns, bring your friends! It's fun to lose and to pretend! She's overboard and self-assured-

Oh no, I know a dirty word!"

Finding an old CD player in a ruined antiques store was fun. Simon told her just to leave it behind, since the chances of them finding batteries and a working CD were so small it'd just be extra weight. Thank goodness Marcaline ignored his advice and snuck it into her pack, because not more than two weeks later they were looting a house for canned goods when they found, lo and behold, some batteries and an old Nirvana CD.

They'd listened to that CD non-stop for the past few days. Marceline had memorized every word.

"Hello, hello, hello, how low? Hello, hello, hello how low? Hello, hello, hello, how low? Hello, hello, hello!"

With Hambo on his lap, Simon watched her little concert with a wide grin and a steady clap that helped her keep tempo. Not exactly a song you'd expect a little girl to perform, but considering their limited options he was willing to go with it.

"With the lights out, it's less dangerous! Here we are now, entertain us! I feel stupid and contagious! Here we are now, entertain us! A BALDATTLE! OH BANANA! A MOSIQUTO! MY LAB TITO! YEAH!"

Well, she memorized of the words, anyway.

It was dusk, but they had found a nice place to spend the night—a little cove of upturned concrete in a city, near a collapsed building—it had a perfect firepit, where a healthy blaze kept them warm and well-lit, and their packs were already spread out for the night. Some beans were heating slowly over a pot, and their hearty aroma wafted through the air with little else to contest it. They had even found a sewing kit to patch up Hambo earlier, so he wasn't bleeding cotton anymore.

Marcaline was jumping all over the place, screaming into her homemade microphone .

"A DENAIL! A DENAIL! A DENLA! A DENIAA! A DANALA! A DANANAL! A DAMAHAL! A DAANANA! A DAMALAHA! Thank you!"

She bowed gracefully, and he applauded, whistling as she skipped 'off-stage' , circled around the fire, and plopped herself right down next to him, plucking Hambo from his lap and holding him in front of her.

"Did ya like it, Hambo?"

"Oh, he did. He probably thinks you're the best singer in the world."

"Well there's not too much competition, is there?" She snickered, and he chuckled as well: humor was one of the few ways they could cope with the slowly dawning realization that they might truly be alone.

"Regardless! Your show ended at just the right time." He smirked, stopping the CD player before In Bloom could start. "I think our beans are ready."

"Oooh, yum. Is this the good kind?" She perked up, scooting forward as he kneeled in front of the pan, examining the contents.

"Um… I forget what brand you liked." He considered as he stirred it around, doing one final check.

"I don't remember its name. Started with a B, I think… uh… bork…?"

"Berkstines?"

"Yes! That one!"

He chuckled, then reached down and grabbed the discarded bean can: he held it up so she could see the label. Her eyes widened.

"Yay!"

"Third best thing we got out of that house, huh?"

"Yep!"

He scooped the beans into two paper plates—the lion's share went to Marceline, since she was a growing girl, but she almost never ate all that he gave her, meaning he'd usually get a good portion himself when he ate her leftovers. He gave the little girl her bowl, then sat next to her—she didn't even wait for him to get settled before she started to chow down.

"You know," She started a conversation thread in spite of the dozens of unmashed beans in her mouth that courtesy demanded she hide from the world, "We should write our own music, Simon! We have instruments, why not use them?"

"Hmmm. I'm not really a lyricists… but if you have any ideas…"

"Well, okay, how about that Lullaby? It's just lyrics, right? We can use those lyrics, and write our own music for it!"

He raised an eyebrow, scooping his own handful of beans into his mouth while he considered. Unlike her, however, he swallowed before he spoke. He was trying to teach her manners by example: it wasn't working. Although he could probably forgive her for eating with her mouth open, since necessity dictated they eat their beans with their hands anyway.

"Sounds like fun!"

"Sweet! I got the guitar! Simon, you get the keys. Hambo, you can play the drums!"

They didn't have a guitar, or drums, but they did have a Ukulele, sticks, and a good imagination. Either way, with her plan cemented, she couldn't finish those beans fast enough—she stuffed the goop into her mouth, chewed until the inside of her mouth was just teeth and bean paste, then swallowed—throwing the plate aside to dig out the instruments from their packs.

Understanding some serious nagging would follow if he held her up, Simon started to pick up the pace with his own meal, although not to the degree she had. By the time she had dragged the Xylophone and the miniature guitar out from under their other assorted supplies and crap, he had only a bite left to go—quickly shoving it into his mouth before she caught him slacking, she turned and extended his instrument to him.

"Come on!"

He hastily wiped his hands off on a nearby rock before taking the instrument she bequeathed to him, getting it ready as she sat Hambo up, laying two sticks across his lap.

"You're the drums, so you keep the beat. Don't go too fast or too slow!"

She started fiddling with the ukulele's tuners, occasionally plucking the string to make sure everything at least sounded tuned. She did it with such confidence he was honestly unsure if she was just pretending or actually knew what she was doing. Sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Hambo, she looked up at Simon and grinned.

"Alright, lay down some beats for us!"

"Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon…" he began to sing, but Marcaline stopped him with an abrupt show of her palm. Silent, she started playing with the strings, finding a harmonious series of notes that would complement the lyrics. It was a slow process, but he watched patiently as she played with each string, the look of concentration on her face absolutely striking. She even licked her upper lip a little when she heard something she liked.

"Alright. Next line."

"I'm singing this song with you." He sang, stopping before she could chastise him with her hand. And from there, they fell into a rhythm: she would experiment with her instrument, poking notes and playing with sounds, stringing his song within her mind to find the perfect accompaniment. When entirely satisfied, she'd request the next line, and he'd supply it. It was a long process: meticulous in many aspects, and it might have tried at his patience years ago… but he was waiting on nothing. In this world, the future held as little as the past, so why not waste the early hours of the night watching a little girl struggle with her budding muse?

Every so often she had the wisdom of testing her progress, making sure her music for the first line strung together with the music for the second. It usually didn't, and she embarked on a new experiment. It was quite astonishing the talent she had for this, he noted as he watched the sky darken and the light of the flames flicker across the low-hanging clouds: if she had proper training from someone who knew what they were doing, she'd probably be able to improvise a tune at the drop of a hat.

She worked long past his ability to gauge the time by the fading of the light behind the clouds, and when the final note rang to her satisfaction, a huge grin exploded across her face, stripping any and all seriousness that had once formed on the surface of her concentration.

"Ha! Perfect! Okay, you guys ready?"

Simon blinked, then looked down at his lap: oh, crap. Right. He was supposed to be working too, wasn't he?

"…um-"

"Perfect! Alright! Simon, start it up!"

He'd just improvise. How hard could that be? Coughing to clear his throat, he brandished his mallets, hovered them over the plastic xylophone, and sang:

"Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon,

I'm singing this song with you

In the morning when you're gone

I'll wait again to sing along

Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon

What makes your songs so sweet?

Lend me your melody

To give all the sweetest dreams

To my dear Marceline

Goodnight, Mr. Moon,

Goodnight, Marceline

Goodnight… goodnight…"

He tapped some notes upon his xylophone while Marceline brilliantly combined the fruits of her efforts into one smooth melody—a gentle, simple tune that helped carry his voice, supporting the words without overshadowing them. Her fingers moved across the instrument naturally, instinctually, almost as if she were born and raised in a stomach of a guitar: she even kept playing after the song ended, a few extra notes to form a cushion of music to soften the abrupt landing of the lyrics, and transition them back into silence.

…she was really such a special kid.

"Hambo, your drumming kinda sucks." She frowned at the bear, taking the sticks from his lap and holding them out in front of her, as if there were a real drum set before her. "You can't just wail on the drums, you gotta hit the right spot. See…"

As she went on the explain the details of drumming properly to her stuffed bear, Simon could only lean forward and smile, listening to her lecture and doing his best to fend off his own weariness to savor these fleeting moments.

This was a night he'd never forget.

He refused to forget.

* * *

She woke.

"Heh… heheh… ooh… oh… that's so cold… so cold, that's fringed… frozen… beautiful… so…. Watch it fall down… little snowflakes… dancing snowflakes… singing snowflakes… bloody snowflakes… secrets all for me… all for me…"

Oh god. No. No, no, please no. Please, god, please make this a nightmare.

"Chaos sweet chaos the beginning of madness touched by ice frozen fingers wrapped around tiny necks they're so warm too warm must-no ice ice is the cure snow is the remedy frost is the ointment blistering cold is the solution everything is snow absolutely everything I can see it now packed in SO TIGHT IT COULD JUST BURST with one quick snip!"

She lay still. Completely, utterly still. She dare not even twitch an eyelash.

"I sit on the brink of infinity I hear her sweet voice calling me Simon Simon inherit the throne of the ice king freeze all lands and dominate all make the world a snowflake beautiful snowflake dancing snowflake pure snowflake bloody snowflake and I reach for her hand and she pulls me into her icecapped bosom and holds me until I'm a frozen corpse suffocate me in love suffocate the world in the love of ice and snow frozen forever memorial to my wonder I have the power by glob I'm going to use it with my own to fingers taste the flesh of the alpha and omega"

She could see him. She couldn't move away. She couldn't, it'd get his attention. His back was to her, hunched over himself, the crown balanced perfectly atop his head—shimmering in the night, a beacon of his insanity. How did it even get on him? Last she saw he was putting it away for the night, when did it come out? Did he take it out? N-no, Simon would never… something… something must have happened… right? While she was asleep. Something happened, something MADE it get on his head. Simon wouldn't put it on. He wouldn't.

"So many visions these horrific phantasm all the time all the time WHAT NO LEAVE HER ALONE she's mine all mine stuff her in a bag so no one can touch her she's mine no nononononono just one taste one simple smell while no no nono I won't allow it rend their eyes from their skulls they're judging me no I can't help but love her she needs me I know it my princess I'll find you and share with you all the secrets let you sit at my feet while I administer the vaccines into the lifeblood of this earth provoke the metamorphosis into a perfect world of chaos and ice falling upon the world like the bomb that stole my princess my darling princess I will wait for you for my one and only princess to become my ice queen"

He wasn't breathing. Just speaking. Whispering into his knees. Snow was starting to fall—idyllically drifting from the heavens and landing all around then, in his hair, on her sleeping bag and face, into the fire where they were snuffed out instantaneously. They fell onto the rubble, into the patch of green grass they were so excited to find earlier today, into the dirt on their sacks and into their pots and onto his open journal with pen laid across it. Everywhere, snow. It was so cold. She wanted to shiver, but she couldn't. So instead she closed her eyes and tried to pretend this wasn't real.

"everywhere everywhere everywhere there are eyes desperate hungry eyes they want my crown they see it and they try to take it from me no it's mine it will always be mine never never never never never will I share this no the secrets are for me and my princess betty barbra bacon belching boomerang boring baby bunches bubblegum all for me why should I share it's my power absolutely pumping under my skin throbbing gnawing clawing biting tearing destroying rending annihilation just skin left no bones no flesh no brain no heart no warmth no simon all holding me back the ice king will rise and a great storm will visit the world and creation will rejoice"

She was far away, where the clouds were blue and bright and the sea was warm and forgiving. She had a grown-up guitar and was singing along with a new CD with a radio that had full batteries and Hambo was there, playing the drums. She had a whole bowl of fresh apples, all for her that she didn't have to share, but she was so nice she gave one to Hambo anyway. She was sitting on green grass that tickled her toes, and there were even some flowers growing—they smelled beautiful. And the apples were delicious.

"then these visions will stop I'll kill them I'll destroy every one with the ice freeze and shatter crushing each one and then things will be quiet again the quiet promised by the ice and snow perfect silence forever and ever and ever and I'll finally rest to sleep sleep so gloriously in my bed of ice and snow and my aches will vanish and all the chaos around me will perpetuate silently quietly the peace of the arctic royalty and my guardians my loyal knights of inanimate snow will stand eternally to protect my sanctuary from all the noise all the visions all the sight and sound and smells disgusting scents that obstruct my one true wish"

She'd wake up. She'd wake up any second now, and Simon would be there and she'd eat an apple and tell him all about her nightmare and he'd hug all her fears away. And then he'd sing along to the new CD with her, and Hambo will ask for another Apple and she'll give it to him because she's a good person and bad things don't happen to good people. Any second now. She'd wake up. She'd wake up to blue skies and warm winds and soft grass. Soon, she kept telling herself. Soon.

"apocalypse and rapture heralded by a trumpet of frozen magnificence glacier cavalry storming the beaches lances of fringed gales thrusting through the hearts of heretics the walls of the orders will crumble to my warcry 'hail the iceking and his court of madness' ice winged cherubs will pock the sky with-"

She sneezed.

He snapped his head backwards, and his milky dead eyes latched onto hers. His lips were bleeding, and the tips of his sharp teeth were stained red.

"…n-no…" she whimpered, tears brimming up in the edge of her eyes.

"And what are you doing awake still, you silly little girl! Didn't you know it's BEDTIME!?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I-"

"Are you having a hard time sleeping?! Is that it?! Is my precious little Halfling scared of the dark?!"

He stood, grinning, stepping quickly to her—she tried to wiggle away, but wrapped so snuggly around the blankets of her bedroll, she couldn't escape fast enough. He scooped her up, frost burn wracking everything he touched, and held her close to his chest—holding her despite her desperate struggling.

"I'll sing you that SONG you like! Sweet little Marceline LOVES Her Lullabies!"

"Please let me go!"

"Marceline, Marceline

I'm singing this song with you

In the morning when you're gone

I'll wait again to sing along

Marceline, Marcaline,

What makes your songs so sweet?

Give me your melody

To give all the truest sleep

To my dear Marceline

Goodnight! Goodnight!

Goodnight, Marceline!

Goodnight! Goodnight!"

"Simon! You're hurting me!"

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked, his unblinking eyes inexorably staring down at her, a drip of blood falling from the inside of his grin. "Don't you want to sleep?"

* * *

In the distance, rubble fell.

How it managed to stay dangling precariously for so long before crumbling, he could never guess. But it fell just now. Landed on the ground. Shattering into dozens of smaller chunks, empty-headed children when compared to what spawned them. Gather all the pieces up, glue them together, you still won't have what it used to be. Just a bunch of broken pieces pretending to be the whole they came from. Rubble.

He didn't need to eat. He didn't need to sleep. The crown sustained him. He lay on the ground, breathing, pouring air into his limp, useless body, watching in quiet mourning as the dust landed upon his unmoving hands. He dare not disturb it, lest even the dust vanish into the air.

The crown sat beside him. Consoling him with bitter promises. Whispers in his mind he could barely contain.

"Hello. My name is Simon Petrikov." He told himself, voice cracking. "I'm studying to be an antiquarian. My fiancée is Betty. I love her very much."

He was honest. He never lied. So he must be saying the truth.

"Hello. My name is Simon Petrikov. I'm studying to be an antiquarian. My fiancée is Betty. I love her very much."

Please. This once. Please. This one last time.

"Hello. My name is Simon Petrikov. I'm studying to be an antiquarian. My fiancée is Betty. I love her very much."

Nothing. The dust settled. His words fixed nothing. They broke everything. Why couldn't they fix anything? How come his words could only create tears? And why could he cry, why could he sob, why could his voice reach the clouds that masked heaven but why did he have to try so hard to keep this dust on his hand?!

Was that sanity? Just dust in your hand?

The days and nights were countless and enveloped in silence. There was no music, no happy sound of laughter to wake him, no gentle breathing beside him to soothe his heart to sleep. He was alone. Absolutely alone. His own voice, so different from what he remembered, was his only company. And he kept telling himself he was Simon Petrikov, because his voice was the only one he could trust.

He cried. He always cried. And it was always the dust on the ground that mopped up his tears.

His memories were few. Precious. He protected them from the crown with the last of his willpower. Memories few and far between—His first date with Betty. Going to the library to study for finals. Their dog. Finding the crown. Abandonment. His mother. Hambo.

Even now, the crown snaked within the folds of his brain, trying to rob what remained of his memory—they were all that remained between Simon and the Ice King—all that stood between a champion of ice and snow, and the wreckage that spent his days on the ground, balancing the dust in his hand.

…wait. There was another memory. Wasn't there? There was something he was missing… a memory… something dear to him…

"N-no…" He gasped, staring at the crown with wide, trembling eyes. "D-don't… don't you dare take Marceline from me, you... oh… oh no…"

He panicked. No, not that. Anything, no, take anything else, he needed… no, no… no no no no!

"Mr. Moon," He sang, voice shattering under the sobs he forced himself to swallow, "Mr. Moon, I'm singing this song with you..."

The crown shimmered in the dull light. The red jewels embedded within it met his eyes, as if eyes of their own. His tears ran down his cheek, catching against his beard.

"In the m-morning… w-w-when you're gone… I'll wait again to sing along…."

He choked on another sob, catching his breath upon the angry sorrow.

"Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon… what makes your songs so… sweet…"

He closed his eyes.

"P-please… lend me your melody… to give all the sweetest dreams…"

He clenched his fist shut.

The dust fell.

"To my sweet… t-to my sweet…"

He was broken.

"To my sweet…"

"…to… my sweet…"

"…my…"

* * *

"Gunter! What are you doing?"

The Penguin in question snapped its head to the side and looked up at the large, robed wizard, who was glaring disapprovingly down at his favorite arctic bird. He'd caught that silly penguin waddling around the house when it was clearly beauty sleep time—mandatory for all penguins. After all, it'd be no good if he had a princess over and she was uncomfortable with all the ugly looking birds waddling around the place!

The penguin quacked, then looked down at its webbed feet, utterly ashamed of itself.

"Sweetie, what am I supposed to do with you? You know you can't skip out on beauty sleep time! If you miss a day, the OTHER penguins will want to skip a day, and that's a headache daddy doesn't want to deal with!"

"Quack!"

The Ice King shook his head, then scooped the bird up and cradled him in his arms.

"Well, how about this once, I sing you a lullaby to help you sleep, alright?"

"Quack!" Gunter applauded.

"Alrighty, lets see…

Gunter, Gunter,

I'm Gunting this song with you

In the morning when I'm gone

You'll wait again to Gunt along

Gunther, Gunther

What makes your Gunt's so sweet?

Lend me your Guntery

To give all the sweetest babes

To your Daddy, Ice King

Goodnight, Gunter

Goodnight, Ice King

Goodnight… goodnight…"

"Quack?" Gunter questioned, extending a flipper to scoop up a stray tear from the Ice-King's cheeks.

"No, I don't know why I'm crying… must be because I'm such a brilliant lyricist! Daddy's gonna write that down and serenade Princess Bubblegum—Jay T. Doggzone says chicks dig a guy who can get all emotional."

He dropped the penguin on the spot and flapped his beard, taking flight.

"You sleep now, Gunter! I want to see a pretty sleeping penguin when I get back!"

"Quack!" The bird called back, waving goodbye as the Ice King undertook his grand quest of finding some loose paper and a pen.

…when he was clearly out of sight, Gunter peered about his chamber, found an old, empty perfume bottle and smashed it.

That was all he really needed to do to sleep.


End file.
